A Thin Line
by LadyVaderWrites
Summary: Written Pre HBP for the challenge quote:'It is all of these things and more, that keep us together.' Harry looks back on his friendship with Draco and wishes it were more.


A Thin Line:

(N/B: written for the two line challenge: _'It is all of these things and more, that keep us together.')_

He stood quietly, marvelling at the amber glow of liquid circling the cubes of ice in his glass, rain lashing against the window at his side, idly supposing that he should go and join in the festivities.

But he didn't.

He had less than no desire to join the throng of people shaking his hand, clapping him on his back and telling him just how hard up the department would be without him. Couldn't walk across the room to take him, finally, by the hand and tell him that nothing would be the same once he was gone, couldn't even look him in the face to say that he was sorry, let alone say goodbye.

His stomach clenched uneasily, a promise of his fate the next morning as he resolutely washed down his queasiness with yet more whisky. He didn't usually drink, he certainly never drank hard liquor like the liquid slowly burning its way down his gullet, or the brandy before that, the tequila before that, the vodka before that and the several glasses of whatever it was they were referring to as punch even though it had been spiked from here to eternity. He hiccoughed gently and let his eyes drift shut a moment as he relished the inch or so of cold air that pervaded the glass, spreading a slight chill over him from the storm outside as again he wished he were anywhere but here.

Harry Potter had never been that into parties, intimate gatherings sure, where people he knew met up for the sheer joy of just being with one another, but nothing like the formal, socialite monstrosities he had been subjected to over the years and even though the party tonight consisted mainly of people he knew and had worked closely with for some time, he was miserable. Drunk and miserable, to be exact, and working on getting drunker. What did it matter anyway? He didn't have to work the next day, had no real reason to get out of bed anymore in fact, why bother when your day would be long and empty and devoid of life?

He watched him flit from group to group, smile bright and tongue sharp with wit as he amused the countless fans he had accumulated, waiting for him to bestow so much as a single word upon them before he moved on from them forever. Harry smiled grimly into the dregs of his glass as he recalled that it seemed he had always had such power, there had always been someone wanting to be close to him, to hang upon his every word and cherish said word as gospel truth. Besides Harry, he wasn't sure that anyone had ever been denied his friendship unless he wished it so.

Draco Malfoy. As bright and golden as the morning sun, but as cold and haunting as the winter moon.

Harry sighed, wishing he could venture back into the room for another drink, but Draco was monopolising the bar with his followers crowded about both it and him like a particularly witty flame amongst a crowd of adoring moths. He lifted a hand to beckon the waiter over once again but found his breath catching in his throat as Draco threw back his head, emitting a rich, deep chuckle that made Harry think of molten dark chocolate and cold nights spent huddled round a fire, cheeks aflame with mirth and alcohol. Harry missed that sound in such a way that it tore at his innards, a claw of something like regret permanently digging into his side and leaving him wounded where no one could see.

But Harry could feel it, had felt it for longer than he'd known, a Malfoy-shaped thorn in his side since he was eleven years old, suddenly blooming into the twisted blade of grief and loss that it now was through his own stupidity and negligence. He dully accepted the glass of champagne offered to him, staring into the muted golden solution with no appreciation for the bubbles that drifted to the surface in search of escape, his mind thrown back to simpler times. Maybe, he mused, maybe it had been easier when they'd been enemies, might have been better if they'd stayed that way, but then, he smiled wryly, had that been the case then he most certainly would be dead.

In Harry's 6th year, Professor Snape had stumbled across a weakness in the prophecy that bound the Boy Who Lived to the Dark Lord, stating that for one to die then both must die. He found that if they could banish the sprit of Voldemort within a specific amount of time then he would never be able to return and depending on the method used to kill Harry then he might yet be revived. They planned and plotted, schemed and virtually sweat blood until both Lupin and Snape stumbled across a notion, derived from the muggle tragedy of _Romeo & Juliet_ wherein they could create a potion that would effectively kill Harry, stopping his heart for a period of exactly seven minutes, enough time to kill and banish Voldemort before the Boy Who Lived would live again. This seemed a perfect, if highly dangerous plan, carefully plotted and re-schemed they had taken every single detail into account and on the day in 7th year that Voldemort descended upon the school, they were convinced of their victory.

Harry walked directly up to the dark lord formerly known as Riddle and promptly imbibed the potion, gasping as his heart stopped and he crumbled directly at Voldemort's feet.

Peter Pettigrew, to his credit, wept and before he could do so much as crow in triumph, Voldemort found himself on the end of five muggle rifles, three muggle handguns and roughly a dozen killing curses. It seemed overkill during planning, but it was noted by all present that it took, in fact, another five Avada Kedavra's to actually defeat the Dark Lord, opening a portal at his feet to suck his putrid soul into the depths of hell to be bound there for all eternity, the only problem with said portal being that it opened directly beneath the cold, still body of one Harry Potter.

He was told afterwards that the ground had given way at the exact moment Voldemort had crumbled to ashes, the ground spiralling downwards into a vortex of fire and anguish, his body just disappearing from view of his protectors, his life saved by one whom they had come to view as lost to them. Draco had launched himself forwards, diving over the dirt beneath him to scrabble at the collar of Harry's robes, twisting his fist resolutely into the material and gripping Harry by the nape as a mother cat might to one of her litter. Voldemort had been vanquished mere moments after Harry's _death_ leaving him frozen for at least five minutes, suspended in air by the desperate grip of his supposed foe, Draco sobbing and scrabbling for better purchase upon the ground, lithe body slipping against the lip of the chasm with the deadweight of the Gryffindor's body until a blow from above had stayed fast the steadfast Slytherin.

Harry had opened his eyes to a sea, an ocean of rolling fire beneath him and looked up to see none other than his schoolmate and rival gripping onto him for dear life, but never could Potter recall just how Draco came to be holding him, nor where, nor for what amount of time. All he could remember was the way the Slytherin ground his teeth into his lip as a steady stream of blood flowed from his mouth and down his chin, his arm, to soak into the collar of Harry's robes, staining both them and Harry's skin for some time after as slowly the lifeblood drained from Draco Malfoy. After the Death Eaters' protective barrier had been dissolved and the boys had been hauled free, Draco was rushed away before Harry could properly thank him, but considering he had seen the extent of Draco's wounds as they hauled him, the _hero_ to safety first, he wasn't sure he would have been able to form words to describe his feelings towards the blond at that time.

Lucius Malfoy, he was informed, upon turning to watch the horror of his beloved master's demise, was then further incensed to witness his only son and heir's sudden dive towards the gaping wound in the earth, clinging to the Dark Lord's destroyer with all his might, even heard to sob when he couldn't pull him clear. And so he reacted as any displeased father might. He walked slowly over, noted that his son was also slipping into the chasm and decided to prevent such an event by picking up Harry's lost weapon, the fabled sword of Gryffindor, and driving it through his son's slim body, pinning him to the ground and effectively saving Harry's life (unknowingly of course) and snuffing out that of his precious child.

Of course with such power as Dumbledore possessed and the many able fighters on the side of light, there was no question of Draco dying, and he often joked that Severus had informed Dumbledore of his death and that the old man had quite simply just said _No_ and that was that. Draco lived through the freely given tears of a phoenix, the excessive labours of all Healers present and one irate, if soft-hearted, Potions Master and didn't even have (as he oft complained) an interesting scar to prove his heroism.

No mention was ever made by him about his father's role in his attempted fatality except for one Fathers Day a little while back when Harry caught him crying quietly, a silver topped cane in hand and, as Harry had poured him a hot drink and silently wiped his tears with the monogrammed handkerchief that Ginny Weasley made him, Harry decided that he didn't need a scar to remind him of his deeds, some wounds would never heal.

They had both returned to school to live awhile, neither recovered enough to graduate and due to the amount of students who had been injured or actively participated in the war, it was decided that Hogwarts would open a month later for its starting term, instead keeping on its elder, war wounded students to tutor them over the holidays until they were able to retake their exams and graduate, ready to take their place in a Voldemort-free world.

Both Harry and Draco were hailed as saviours of the Wizarding world, Harry for dying for his cause, Draco for nearly dying for Harry, which was a topic never discussed by either boy, choosing instead to glower and circle each other like wary cats before settling into an easy, if doubtful, aversion. Draco was placed in dorms with Harry, Ron, Neville and the handful of other male students who had fought in the war and for a time they were all content to study and snipe at each other on a daily basis, each pushing without effort to see where the other's boundaries lay, retreating gleefully when scoring a direct hit until Ron, one sticky August night, made the mistake of calling Draco 'Lucius Junior'. To date it was the only time that Harry had ever truly hated Ron and although his broken nose was easily healed by Madam Pomfrey, the aftershocks of such an action left an uneasy tension in the dorm-room for weeks to come and an unlikely bond between the _orphans_ formed.

Draco made the mistake a few weeks later of trying to thank Harry for his 'quite unnecessary' action and although the appreciation of the deed itself started out well enough, it was sadly followed by a jibe about the Weasel's likely parentage and before Harry knew it both he and Draco were back in the hospital wing nursing wounds that ranged from Harry's broken hand from punching the Slytherin, Draco's broken cheekbones, Harry's cracked ribs, Draco's chipped tooth and many other injuries that each had managed to inflict upon the other as the rolled over and over, biting, kicking and scratching until Harry's hand had grazed the slight indentation of Draco's all but fully healed wound and then they both lay there panting, bleeding sluggishly as Harry thought how much it must have hurt and Draco remembered why his father had thrust the sword through him to start with.

Draco Malfoy had intentionally saved Harry Potter's life. There was no way around it, no excuses, no temporary insanity, no way out of admitting that when it came down to it, Draco wanted Harry to live.

It was the ultimate in ceasefires. You simply could not fight, they decided, the boy you nearly died to save or the boy who nearly died to save you. It was with some very natural regret with which they called the truce and both could still be heard years later discussing the 'good ol' days' with some nostalgia and a violent gleam in their eyes.

After graduation, both boys expressed ardent desires to become aurors and while Harry lacked the grades, Draco lacked the status. Most had accepted that this Malfoy was at least mostly good, but the majority of the Wizarding world were wary of such an about turn in morals such as Draco had exhibited and would prefer him to sink easily into a nice, quiet existence where people could recall his bravery, but not be forced to deal with the reality of him as an actual person. Harry, on the other more biased hand, they wanted into the Ministry as soon as possible, yesterday if it could be arranged. After some great consideration (guided by the public outcry) it was decided that the Ministry needed to take on some fresh blood and in order for them to do that, they needed newer, younger aurors, but what with the recent war, not many had the time and necessary energy to apply themselves to such a task. And so, it was announced with a jovial, beneficial smile, there would now be an Auror training facility aimed at young people, fully graduated of course, who had an interest in the field and who better to be its first pupils than the recent war heroes and their collaborators.

Harry was not unaware of the favouritism shown by this decree and although he tried his best to be affronted, he couldn't help but be pleased that he would get another chance to try his hand at being an Auror. To his surprise, without the stress of trying to carve himself a niche in what had been a sparkling new world to him, without the horror of being hunted by the world's greatest villain and subsequent murderer of your parents, Harry found he really quite enjoyed his studies and with the focus to guide him towards a greatly desired goal, he found himself to be a great deal smarter than he had previously believed. Draco, of course, excelled at his studies, making top grades in all but one with the greatest of ease while Harry stubbornly studied his way into his professor's good books, also achieving high marks in all but one subject. Draco was struggling in Muggle studies, Harry was struggling in Potions and so, with a great air of inevitability, the boys were thrown together yet again as each other's tutor, forced anew into close quarters.

Harry sighed and lifted his glass, watching the now twice as golden figure from across the room as he recalled their late night study sessions. The world had decided that they must now be simply the _greatest_ of friends and had granted them adjoining rooms, a luxury that until the time as it became necessary, both boys had chosen to ignore. Ron had decided, after coming up with even more insane yet highly effective plays than Oliver Wood had conceived, that Quidditch was the only life for him, be it in coaching, playing, anything as long as it kept him close to the sport he so adored and was quickly snapped up by the Chudley Cannons as a substitute Keeper and with Hermione studying for her PhD in everything under the sun at a muggle university so that she might take over Muggle Studies at Hogwarts someday, Harry found himself keeping mostly to himself between classes. The obvious exception to this rule was Draco, as he would stroll through to Harry's rooms come their agreed study time, sneer at Harry's disorganised clutter, then insist they study in Draco's rooms. Each time, without fail he did this and each day without fail Harry would refuse, even to the point where he tidied before Draco got there yet they still fell into their usual bickering before Draco even scanned the room for untidiness.

Harry assumed that Draco hated him despite his sudden appreciation for his mortality and Draco assumed that Harry resented him for stealing his limelight and it wasn't until both boys stood nose to nose in Harry's quarters, flinging books and insults faster than the seconds flew by and Harry grabbed him by his robes, shaking him for an explanation of why he saved his life if he hated him so much, that Draco (ever the Slytherin) happened upon the problem in their _relationship_.

He'd blinked. "I don't hate you," he'd snarled, "Why the fuck would you assume I hate you?"

Harry had stood stock still for a few seconds, allowing his brain to digest this question fully before breaking under the frustration, shaking the blond hard enough to hear his teeth rattling, shouting in abject exasperation that if Draco _didn't_ hate him then why the _fuck_ did they fight all the time?

The blond had shrugged, face ruddy with colour from too much shaking, dry amusement in his eyes. "Don't know," he'd drawled, "Do you hate me?"

Harry could still recall the sensation of grating his upper teeth into his lower, attempting to mash the howl of rage between them, his answer a confused spatter of words that set real mirth dancing in the silver eyes before him. "Yes... no... yes... I don't know," he'd admitted lamely and had been startled by the first real smile he had seen upon the Slytherin's face for the entire span of their acquaintance.

"Well then," said the blond, and just like that he changed the dynamics of the Harry/Draco correlation, moving them from pointless nemesis' into an uneasy friendship, both hesitant and strained, each boy wary of how to treat the other until it occurred to them both that they could simply continue as they were, but now safely in the knowledge that neither of them truly meant the insults that flew between them even if they might swear on their ancestor's graves to the contrary.

Draco allowed himself to become fascinated by muggle ways and their odd traditions and devices to the point that one Christmas, the first Christmas he received a gift from Harry in fact, Harry bestowed upon him a rubber duck, a plasma ball and a large bar of his favourite muggle chocolate. In return for such unexpected kindness, Draco sat up all night writing a guide for Harry explaining the basics of advanced potions in the plainest terms possible so that Harry, upon his overjoyed acceptance of the gift, went so far as to sit straight down and read it from first page to last, happily able to understand from that point at least two thirds of his potions work and making Draco's tutelage that much easier.

Exams came and went with dizzyingly good results for both young wizards, with holidays between spent mostly on the grounds of the Academy, each slowly becoming more and more accustomed to the presence of the other until they began to actively seek the other when one was absent. It was, they had both reflected, a nasty outcome borne from habit and boredom, each refusing to acknowledge that they might actually enjoy the company of the other.

When graduation finally rolled around a year and half later, the two had actually progressed to the point where they occasionally slipped and called the other by their first name, generally scowling shortly after doing so, yet never admitting to the slip, both aggrieved to realise that in the eyes of the other students that they were no longer _Harry Potter: the boy who lived_ or _Draco Malfoy: heir to the Death Eater fortunes_ but quite simply _Harry and Draco_. Just that, never _Harry_ or _Draco_ but Harry and Draco, a duo, a twosome, a scary pairing of talent and wit, bravery and mortality, ying and yang, always fighting, always there until they were a constant for the steadily accruing students of the academy, a legend in their own right.

Harry Potter & Draco Malfoy. Harry raised his glass in silent salute and downed the remainder of its contents, telling himself the burn in his eyes and throat were a result of the bubbles.

Shakily he made his way towards the bar, noting that Draco had moved across the room to firmly clasp the hands of their, or rather, his former boss, placing damp palms down against the cool surface of the bar with relief. He ordered quickly and plentifully, gesturing to a large bottle of whisky behind the bar and overpaying for the pleasure of escorting it back to his position by the window, rain still beating insistently against the pane, it, too, aching to enter and worship at the altar of Draco perhaps.

The day he and Draco had moved out of their rooms it had rained, not like this, a light drizzling rain that kept Harry's spirits as grey as the clouds sitting resolutely atop the sun, masking whatever good mood he might have still clung to after the ceremony the day before, moping as he prepared to leave yet another place he deemed home before stepping out into the world to make another for himself. Draco had stormed through at one point, upset at losing the only person who he might actually consider a friend and equal, deciding to show his distress by lashing out at said person and driving Harry into a rage at being thus victimised. They yelled at each other for a good half hour before Draco spun to walk out, only remembering at the door that he had come through to return the copy of William Shakespeare's sonnets that Harry had lent him for his studies, Draco having declared the man a genius and deciding to do his final study on his life's works. He'd stalked back into the room, standing, quivering with repressed fury before Harry, wishing he had just kept the bloody book in the first place and scowling as the Gryffindor (as Draco always thought him) blinked at the proffered book.

"Take it!" he'd barked harshly and his voice had startled Harry from his bemusement, looking up just in time to catch the weary look in Draco's eyes, shaking his head as he stepped away.

"No," he'd whispered, "You keep it... it means more to you than me."

They stood in uneasy silence for a moment or so, Draco's mouth opening and closing from time to time, words bitten back with some great effort before a muffled 'Thank You' could be heard and then he stormed away again to finish his packing. Harry had continued to pack slowly, trying to shake the gloom that pervaded his heart away, telling himself he should be pleased if nothing else because he would finally get away from his shrew of a study buddy. Somehow, the thought did nothing to improve his mood.

That summer, Harry went to stay at the Burrow, relaxing for the first time in what seemed like an eternity and more than once he fond himself forced to bite his tongue, often spoiling for a good war of words, a little fight to whet his appetite for the day ahead, but none came, just the unconditional love he had come to expect and although his life ahead seemed immeasurably brighter due to the embrace of his virtually adoptive family, he found himself missing the sharpened tongue of his sardonic schoolmate.

Predictably enough, on his first day at the Ministry, having accompanied Arthur in once more, he found himself directed towards the DADAD (Defence Against the Dark Arts Department) to become a junior member of the highly qualified team of Aurors trained to track down the remainder of Voldemort's followers and crush them. When Harry naively asked what would happen once they caught them all, Arthur had informed him sadly that there would always be a Dark Lord rising somewhere and people twisted enough to follow them. Suitably cowed, Harry had entered his workplace with the shy smile upon his face, wiped off within seconds of squeaking 'You?' at the immaculate blond standing in a corner of the office. Draco had had a bad morning, put off by all the stares and whisperings from the workers at the Ministry, therefore not quite quick enough to bite back his retort of 'No, its me, Voldemort' and earning himself a bad attitude label within his first hour of work. Harry told himself that it was merely due to mirth at seeing Draco lectured on his sense of humour that inspired the all encompassing feeling of delight that filled his heart, keeping him smiling for a good hour at least.

When lunchtime rolled around, Draco cornered Harry, snarling that he hoped he enjoyed the show to which Harry had chuckled and replied that yes, he had, immensely in fact, before grinning. Apparently this wasn't the affect Draco was going for and before he could open his mouth to insult the other Auror, Harry surprised both of them by saying warmly, "I missed you, y'know."

This had the nice outcome of keeping Draco baffled and off his case for the remainder of the day, but come the next morning when out on active patrol with Draco and two senior Aurors, Harry had slipped in a large puddle of Butober pus that the perpetrators had been using to brew strong healing potions to keep the more heavily wounded Death Eaters off the Healer's radar and landing in an undignified heap at Draco's feet. "Missed you, too, you clumsy prat," the blond had muttered as he helped him up and, smothering smiles, they both refrained from ever bringing up the topic again.

Harry found himself a nice flat not twenty minutes from Diagon Alley, Draco a loft apartment in a respectable part of wizard London yet somehow he always seemed to be at Harry's flat, come rain or shine, until it became known that if you needed to reach Auror Malfoy then it was easiest to try Auror Potter's place first. This was quite annoying to the pair for some time, each scowling as the rumours circulated that they were best friends, lovers, bound by magic, bound by hatred, that Draco was lost without Harry, that Harry would die without Draco and on and on it went, until they realised that it could be fun to mess with the heads of their co-workers, Draco making a point of staggering if Harry moved more than a few feet away and gasping with relief once he stepped close again. Such little things as this amused them for a time and Harry found, much to Draco's surprise, that he was actually very good at what he did. Draco, on the other hand, was superb if and when he chose to be. He found that he preferred the thrill of the chase to the actual showdown and mockingly nicknamed himself and the brunet as _Brains and Brawn_ and for a time both men were happy, excelling in their work, socialising with the other members of their department and becoming two of the most eligible bachelors in Witch Weekly's yearly poll of Wizarding Totty.

Ron and Hermione became engaged, naming Harry as best man and Draco as best annoying git with all the repressed fondness that comes of liking someone you're quite simply determined not to. Hermione had stuck her dainty little nose high into the air at the pair's initial friendship, waiting for the snubs that would surely come once in Draco's presence, but instead she found a surprising ally when it came to making Ron and Harry study through that summer of revision and brainstorming, often swapping deliberately highbrowed and artificially ostentatious comments with the blond simply to annoy her friends.

Ron took a good deal longer to come around, holding onto his grudge as a child would a treasured, broken toy until the Christmas before Harry and Draco graduated the Auror Preparation Academy when Harry had _insisted_ on bringing Draco with him to the Burrow, stubbornly refusing to come without him. He had found Draco rummaging through the kitchen drawers one night, searching for spellotape and, having realised that he'd been caught by Ron, instead of hexing him into oblivion as Ron tended to expect, he gasped and shooed him away, furious that Ron might see his gift when Draco had gone to so much trouble buying it that very day when Harry had sprung this trip on him at the very last minute with almost no time to shop or pack, and if Ron didn't remove himself that very instant then he was liable to get his eyes spellotaped shut. This rant was severed by Harry's burst of laughter from the other room and it was with a certain fascination that Ron had watched Draco immediately hex Harry, covering his mouth with spellotape as the leg-locker curse took hold. They had jointly mocked the seemingly fuming brunet for the rest of the holiday, not seeing the underlying glow of contentment that came from watching the two old foes ganging up on him like small children.

Harry sighed, breath wavering in his chest as his eyes swam with more than inebriation.

He'd spoiled it. He'd spoiled it all and it was too late to do anything about it.

As the years had passed, each of them celebrating their 21st, 22nd and 23rd birthdays together, Harry and Draco had been segmented, promoted at exactly the same time and now deemed worthy of handling their own cases, often hailed as the most productive and precise defence team in the department, earning them their own little office and a reputation for their inseparability. Harry jokingly referred to them as _Mulder & Scully_ a joke he was glad that Draco hadn't understood once the legendary television duo paired up romantically. Things seemed to be going well for the pair as they spent their days tracking and capturing the residual strains of Voldemort's followers and their off time annoying the other as best they could. Then slowly, something changed.

Harry liked to think of it as his protective instincts rearing their ugly head, but in truth he knew that it was something more, a great deal more than it should be. It started on that same Fathers Day, the fateful day that Draco had actually let himself go, had let it show through that he hurt, he bled still inside him. He had stopped by Draco's flat with some of Mrs. Weasley's homemade pies, a particular favourite of Draco's who hadn't been able to attend dinner with them that night due to a prior engagement, so Harry had let himself into his partner's flat, expecting to find it empty and instead finding the quietly weeping Slytherin sat before the fire, cane in hand, shaking as he let his grief wash over him and only then did Harry recall that it was Fathers Day.

He left the pies forgotten on the kitchen top, walking through to sit quietly beside his friend, drawing Draco to him and mopping at his tears with a steady hand, shushing him as he tried to pull away, holding him steady as he let the sorrow come, the blond finally slumping over Harry's chest and just crying softly into the warmth he found there until he cried himself to sleep. Harry, left staring into the fire with the resolution to track down Lucius Malfoy and kill him for hurting Draco, found himself greatly disturbed by the odd compulsion to press kisses against his partner's brow, the urge to stroke the soft hair from his face already surrendered to as he lifted him to his sofa, staring down into the tear streaked angelic visage as if it held the answers to the wonders of the world. When Draco awoke it was to find Harry quietly puttering about his kitchen reheating pies and brewing tea, ready to offer support where needed and through a little gentle pushing and a reaffirmation that he wouldn't tell anyone he'd seen a Malfoy cry, Draco shared his troubles.

He told Harry he had joined their branch of the Ministry for one reason and that reason's name was _Father_. He didn't want vengeance, nor an apology, he just wanted to know what had happened to him, a purpose that Harry could find no fault with. Until now.

A few months after he had, as promised, forgotten that he had ever seen Draco cry, he stumbled across a Death Eater all too familiar to him. Wormtail. The blubbery little man was astonishingly relieved to be caught, doubly so because it was Harry who caught him and just before Harry was about to hex his tongue loose for the crimes against his family, Sirius and the world in general, Pettigrew's tongue ran riot with details, specific details that Harry wished he hadn't heard.

Handing Wormtail over to the first Auror he could find, he immediately went to see if what the slimy rodent had said was true, flinging the door open at the address he was given before hastily slamming it shut, face pale at the reality of what was within.

Quite understandably, the Death Eaters had taken exception the their leader's demise and had gone quite out of their way to hurt his enemies in any way they could, the death threats on Harry's life mounting into thousands before he started charming them into dust upon delivery. Apparently though, not all of the Death Eaters had blamed Harry for Voldemort's defeat. Some had blamed Draco and, subsequently, had revenged themselves on said target in the only way they knew how.

They tortured and murdered his father, leaving the mangled body of Lucius Malfoy hung, messiah-like, upon a large statue of a serpent poised to strike. He had been there for some time when Harry found him, but there was no doubt as to his identity, the delicacy of hair and features that Draco had inherited showing through the decay and giving Harry nightmares about the death of his partner for weeks. He had the body taken down and recorded in its present state before calling for the Morticians to restore him as best they could so that Draco might look upon him if he so wished.

Harry went home, washed away the stench of death and decomposed flesh, swallowing his apprehension before setting out to find Draco. He expected grief of some kind, anger, sorrow, violence, abuse, denial, something, but Draco merely blinked at him, went even paler than normal before lowering himself to sit shakily against the wall. Harry sat beside him slowly, worried that he might be intruding, but somehow unwilling to leave. "He never deserved you," he whispered, surprising himself with the vehemence with which it was spoken, startled further yet when Draco shifted to rest his head on Harry's shoulder, saying nothing, but leaning into him with such timidity that Harry found himself wrapping his arms about the smaller man, sitting balled up there with him for the majority of the night.

Work was strained after that. Harry wanted to keep the reports and confessions of the Death Eaters soon captured from Draco, but this only angered the blond, who not only insisted on seeing the body, but also on hearing every single gory detail about his father's demise. Harry walked into their office a few weeks after the discovery of Lucius' body to find Draco sat, head in hands, slumped dejectedly over the desk. "I found him," he whispered, "I know now, I can stop looking, I can stop. I don't need to be here."

Alarmed by this little despondent speech, Harry promptly cancelled their day's work and dragged Draco away to the nearest bar. Harry wasn't a drinker by nature, but he knew that there was grief in Draco's heart that had yet to be expelled and the only real way Harry knew how to get what was in, out of you, was through copious amounts of alcohol. However, instead of the morose, sorrow sharing bereaved son that Harry expected to pour into a cab at the end of the night, what he got was an entirely flirtatious, completely sozzled and extremely demonstrative drunken Draco.

He spent the night curled into Harry's chest, pressing them both back into the corner of their booth, pushing his face into the curve where Harry's throat became his jaw, murmuring quietly the whole time about how good Harry's skin felt, how good Harry smelt, how nice his voice was until every inch of the brunet's skin was buzzing with the urge to press every word from those lips with his own, alcohol blurring his senses into a nice haze of _what if's_ and _who cares_. Draco lifted his head from Harry's throat to gently rub the tips of their noses together, smiling crookedly at his partner. "Love you," he murmured and Harry's heart stopped and then began beating again at eight times its normal rate and volume, until Harry thought the blood would flow from his ears with the power of the pulsation.

Harry was just beginning the slight tilt that would send his head into the inevitable slow dip towards Draco's to press his mouth close, so close to the lips of the gently swaying blond, when the waiter appeared. Harry often thanked the many separate gods of earth that the waiter had been attractive or else he might have made a dreadful fool of himself, kissing Draco before the blond had had his chance to gaze adoringly up at the waiter as he handed him his drink, crooning softly that he loved him, too.

Within fifteen minutes Harry had them in a cab, practically carrying Draco to his flat, depositing him in his bedroom and leaving with barely a backwards glance to the now comfortably dozing Slytherin before going home to surprise himself with a good, thorough, drunken weep as he climbed into his own, cold, empty bed. He stayed there for the majority of the day, getting up to shower and dress at roughly 5pm and was sullenly viewing take-out menus when Draco let himself into Harry's flat. Draco smiled because he remembered feeling off the day before, that Harry took him drinking, that he spent most of the night curled up with him, that Harry practically carried him home and tucked him into bed and all of that only served to make him grateful for the fact that Harry would do that for him. Teasingly he asked why Harry never met him for brunch, knowing full well that they would both have skipped it due to hangovers, but unable to resist the ritual taunt of Harry's lightweight status.

He certainly never expected the fury that followed, Harry mused, gut clenching even now with guilt as he poured himself another generous dose, wishing he hadn't eaten such a full meal beforehand so that the alcohol would blind and deafen him to his heart all the faster. But it didn't and he could still hear himself screaming at Draco.

"Why are you always here? Fucks sake, man, you don't even knock anymore now? Merlin, I can't go anywhere without you, do anything without you and now you're in my fucking flat as well? Why don't you just sodding move in, cut out the middleman and just piss me off 24/7? My entire fucking life I can't get rid of you... Hogwarts, you round every fucking corner making my life a misery then suddenly you decide, hey that's just not enough glory for me, I know I'll save his life and just glue myself to him even further, that way I can just sap all the glory I was always jealous of and then _hey_ when it looks like we're finally free to get out of that fucking place and never see each other again, why don't I just follow him to wherever he goes from here and then to wherever he goes from there until one day he'll just be so fucking SICK of me that he'll just throw himself off a cliff if only to get away from me! And you fucking know what, Draco, I am like three steps away from the nearest cliff because I just cannot get you to leave me alone now… what do I have to do, what do I have to say? You want me to take back what I said before? Fine, I will, I _DO_ hate you, Draco Malfoy, I wish you'd just fuck off and let me fucking be free of you once and for all now will you just take a sodding hint and FUCK OFF!"

And Draco had simply turned and left.

Harry called in to claim a weeks holiday, sitting in his flat by his phone, wishing, wanting so desperately to take it back, but not knowing how to explain his outburst and before he knew it a week had actually gone by and there he was strolling as casually as he could back into the ministry when one of the other members of their department stopped to jokingly ask him how he intended to cope without his right arm. He'd blinked at him in confusion before nearly swallowing his tongue when they had elaborated.

Draco Malfoy had handed in his resignation and had a month to work out his notice as of last week.

Harry made an idle comment about surviving somehow before staggering to their office to find it empty, a junior sat at Draco's desk 'to help with paperwork', she'd beamed, now that Draco had decided to spend his last few weeks tying up loose ends doing field work. Smiling with trembling lips, Harry sat down, taking half the pile to help the girl out, heart shattering as he noted Draco's handwriting on all the parchments, trying to not just drop his head and weep as the girl informed him that Draco has been offered the position of teaching DADA at none other than Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Perfect, Harry'd mused desolately, just perfect.

He didn't see Draco till Wednesday evening as he left the Ministry, stepping back out of a lift as he saw the familiar platinum blond head step into view. Breathlessly he had stepped in his way, "I... I hear you're leaving?" he'd stammered, eyes full of regret and fear and loss and Draco barely gave him a glance.

"That's right," he'd said. And walked away.

That had been roughly three weeks ago, and now, on Draco's last day, his leaving party, there was nothing Harry could do but sit quietly by the window, nursing his drink and broken heart and musing that maybe some people just weren't meant to have things like love and happiness and... Draco.

"The bartender sent me over, says you have to drink this if you're going to drink that." He handed Harry a tall glass of water and turned to walk away, spine straight and elegant in the evening light as Harry shot to his feet, nearly dropping his drink in his hurry to place it on the windowsill.

"Draco... I..."

Draco stopped, half turning to lift an imperious if inquisitive eyebrow at the swaying brunet, face impassive as he let his eyes slowly sweep the dishevelled length of his former partner. "Well?" he murmured coolly, noting Harry's flush with a certain satisfaction.

"I..." Harry's misery was eclipsing itself, doubling over and over in his chest until there simply was no more room for the pain colouring his every breath. 'I'm sorry, say it, I'm sorry.' "I… it was… really great working with you, Draco, I'll... I'll miss... it."

The blond nodded curtly, turning away once more. "Draco!" Harry's voice was low but urgent, a tremor of a sob hanging just beneath it like a waiting shark just hoping for a drop of heart's blood. The blond hesitated once again, though barely inclining his head to look the brunet's way.

"If... If there's anything, anything you ever need or... anything, Draco, then all you ever have to do is say so and I'll... I'll..."

"You'll what?"

Draco spun, whiplash fast, silver irises boring into Harry's troubled green depths, "If I want something, anything, you'll do what? Whatever's in your power to get it for me?"

Harry nodded, hoping against hope that he would just walk away now before Harry felt obliged to hand him his heart on a silver platter. Draco stared at him a moment longer before snarling suddenly, striding forward to grab hold of Harry's arm, dragging them further into Harry's favoured dark corner of the room, pressing them into the a corner, away from prying eyes.

"You want to know what I want, Potter, if there is something you can do for me?" Harry shuddered at the use of his surname, nodding slowly, fearing that what had seemed torture only moments before was about to become so much worse. Draco stepped forward, causing Harry to step back until his back rested against the wall, Draco's hands planted either side of him, the smaller man leaning up to tilt his head, staring fiercely into Harry's wary, if unfocused, gaze. "Ask me to stay."

Harry blinked. "Sorry?" he stammered, Draco's command so far from the mockery of Harry's behaviour that it threw him completely and to his horror Draco's eyes seemed to suddenly burn with unshed tears.

"Tell me," he ground out through lips that trembled with pent up emotion, "tell me that you want me to stay, Harry." And before Harry could do more than part his lips to comply, Draco had leant up to press a fervent, aching kiss against his startled mouth.

After a second or so, not long enough for the brunet's brain to understand exactly what had happened, Draco pulled back, glaring at Harry with a sort of desperation, the same kind of desperation Harry recognised from exiting the lift, ready to beg Draco to stay then and there if only he hadn't walked away. "Tell me you want me to stay, Harry?" he whispered again and to Harry's shock, he found he couldn't.

"All we ever do is fight," he whispered brokenly, "We drive each other mad, we spent the first years of our acquaintance trying to make the other as miserable as possible and yet we're thrown together again and again and each time I swear it hurts a bit more and I don't think anyone knows me like you do, but no one ever hurt me like you can and your aunt killed my godfather, my only family, you're father tried to kill you for saving me, your family fortune is entirely tied up with people who want to kill me, you hated me for longer than you've liked me, I've killed people, and you, you've hurt people, but I was always afraid to ask if you'd killed anyone because I know all your friends experimented on torturing muggles and we've always brought out the worst in each other, I drive you mad, you drive me mad, and I went out of my way to hurt you, but you couldn't let me take that back and that's just, it hurts, you know, what kind of love can it be that's based on hate, and death and... and hurt and two people so completely wrong for each other that..."

"...They're completely right for each other?"

Harry blinked, tears running down his face and blurring his vision as Draco interrupted him, the vision of light and gold tinted blue in the vague light of rain from the window as the blond stepped forward again to trace his lips down the side of Harry's jaw, eyes half closed in bliss at the proximity and whispering as he did so, "Don't you see, Harry? It is our very imperfections that make us perfect for each other... I hated you as a child, hated you so hard I dreamt of you every night, spent my every waking moment trying to think of ways to spoil your day and make you rue the fact you ever chose Ron over me. We've fought since the very beginning, no one ever had to teach us how to hate, it was all there for us, Ron told you and my father told me. Malfoy's are bad, Potter's the enemy... but we came past all that, Harry... can't you see that it is where we've been, what we've said or done before, it is all of these things that makes us who we are here and now?"

He lifted his head to ghost his lips over his former partner's once again, deliberately letting them catch and cling as he muttered harshly, "It is hate that brought us together, hate forged the bond between us... it is through hating you, Harry Potter, that I have learned to love you." He smiled crookedly, vulnerability shining suddenly in his eyes. "Please, Harry," he murmured, "Tell me to stay."

Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady his jangling nerves. "I think you should go to Hogwarts," he began, suffering the spear of anguish through the silver eyes as he quickly moved to haul the blond close once more, Draco having sprung back a step in pain. "But I want you," he breathed into panicked eyes, "I want you to stay in my life... stay with 'me'."

A soft sound of joy emanated from the back of Draco's throat and he threw his arms about Harry's neck, hauling the dark head down to claim his mouth in a proper kiss, moments passing between them unheeded, unnoticed, until wildly stroking, searching hands steadied the other as they separated, dizzy from lack of air, giddy from the moment itself.

"You won't send me away again?" Draco spoke quickly, residual hurt in his eyes and Harry pulled him back into his arms, muttering apologies against his hair, his eyelids, his mouth, his throat, whispering about the waiter and the kiss that never was and his wretchedness since saying it and every thought that has passed through his head since he couldn't talk to Draco until the blond silenced him with a kiss and there was a peace for a while.

"I love you."

Neither would ever be sure which one of them broke the kiss to say it, nor which of them whispered it first, but the effect was instantaneous, slow smiles spreading across their faces and the past few weeks dropped away into the vacuity of the past as Draco informed Harry that he smelled like a the inside of a whisky bottle and somehow that made Harry's smile all the brighter when Draco leaned in to kiss him again. Insults are somewhat null and void when someone loves you enough to stop hating you in time save your life, he mused and Harry smiled further into the kiss, crushing Draco to him and relishing the whimper it produced. Hate had brought them together and hate would bind them together from the root up, but love sure as hell would make things more interesting.

The End.


End file.
